


Detention Friends

by purpleshrub (Viola25)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viola25/pseuds/purpleshrub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU with both Jack and Daniel as kids, hopefully showing that special friendship between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detention Friends

Jack first noticed the kid because he was different. The other kids in detention? They were the druggies, or the truants, or the ones who were always fighting. They whispered to each other, snickered, passed notes. They paid little heed to the detention monitor, lazily making eye contact when the teacher addressed them.

But this kid was different. First, he was small--too small to be in high school, Jack thought. He never spoke a word or looked at anyone. He never worked on homework or doodled or even brought a notebook. He just came and sat, day after day.

The teacher thought he was a retard; so did the other kids. Jack didn’t think he was. His name was Daniel—Jack saw the way Daniel’s eyes narrowed when the teacher called him "Danny." Jack wondered if Daniel would talk if he was called by his proper name. He wondered why Daniel wouldn’t speak and speculated that maybe something horrible had happened to him. Jack hoped not, but the idea made him feel even closer to Daniel—Jack had experienced something horrible, too.

One day Jack slid into the empty seat next to his unknowing detention friend. "Hey, Daniel," he whispered, and was pleased to see the large blue eyes turn towards him in surprise. Jack always sat by Daniel after that. They didn’t say anything—Daniel because he never did, and Jack because he felt they didn’t need to. Once Jack got to the detention room before Daniel—he felt inordinately pleased when Daniel stopped in the doorway, then hesitantly sat down in the seat next to Jack, looking worried.

Jack found out why Daniel was always in detention. He sometimes cut class—he ignored the class when he was there. Before they took his notebook away, he scribbled weird swirling nonsense lines in it. No one knew where he went when he cut class. And there was nothing wrong with his voice or throat. He just wasn’t using them.

It seemed that for a long time—for as long as Jack had been aware of Daniel—he had only associated him with the detention room, with its irregular clock and sticky desks. So it shocked him when one day he saw Daniel outside by the track (the high school didn’t have a playground).

Jack was fighting—and winning. He didn’t know the other kid’s name—just that he was a loser and no one liked him, and Jack had felt that familiar rage; that this . . . person could be alive and in his face, and Charlie wasn’t.

So he was fighting, and winning, and then he looked up and saw Daniel’s pale face staring back at him. In that moment, Daniel might as well have been shouting his thoughts. Daniel would be an obvious target for bullies. What would he think of Jack now?

Jack abruptly let go of his opponent, who fell on his butt and quickly scurried away. Jack could feel reproachful eyes on him, and he looked for Daniel. But Daniel was gone.

Daniel wasn’t at detention that night. The teacher called several times: "Danny Jackson!" Jack was pretty sure the absence was because of him—that by hitting that kid, he had broken a promise he wasn’t even aware of making. He wondered where Daniel was.

As he left detention that night, Jack saw a small package sitting on his backpack. Curious, he ripped it open—there was a note and a squishy stress ball in the shape of a fish inside. Did Daniel know that Jack had always liked to fish? He gently squeezed it, and watched how it bounced back upon release. That’s what they all wanted him to do—bounce back. But Daniel didn’t expect that of him—he obviously couldn’t bounce back either. The fish bore a label that said, "For when you need to squeeze something to death."

The note had the same neat handwriting: "Gyms and youth centers have punching bags—failing that, there’s always your pillow. But people hurt—keep your fists away form them." There was no signature, but Jack knew who it was from.

Actually, Jack’s parents had gotten him a punching bag—that night he finally used it. At supper he felt hungry for the first time in . . . a long time. His parents exchanged significant looks. Jack knew they were thinking, "He’s finally starting to bounce back." It made him want to hit something—instead he squeezed his stress ball—stress fish?—furiously under the table.

And the next day at school, Jack didn’t fight. He didn’t act out in class . . . well, he said some things that would have gotten him in trouble if the teacher had heard . . . . At the end of the day, he still had detention to look forward to . . . but he hadn’t had more added on. This was highly unusual.

Once again, Daniel wasn’t in detention. This time the room monitor didn’t call his name. Jack wondered and worried about it the whole time. Maybe Daniel had finished all of his detention? Unlikely. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he was cutting detention . . . because of Jack? Maybe he had moved.

Afterwards, Jack approached the teacher. She seemed surprised to have a detention student voluntarily staying later than required. "Where’s Daniel?" Jack asked.

The teacher blinked, and answered without thinking, "He’s listed as excused for the rest of the week. Back Monday." Then she frowned suspiciously. "Why?"

"We’re friends." It irritated Jack when her eyebrows rose in apparent disbelief. What did she know, anyway? She couldn’t even get Daniel’s name right . . . .

Back Monday. But if Jack didn’t get any more detention, he’d be done on Thursday. To his own amazement, Jack briefly considered just doing something so he would be in detention when Daniel got back—but he knew Daniel would never accept that. He didn’t want Jack fighting, period—he certainly wouldn’t want Jack in a fight just to see him.

Some of the other detention kids talked about Daniel that week. One suggested that he was in a mental hospital—one suggested jail. And one suggested that maybe Daniel was being moved to a different foster home.

Daniel was in foster care? Jack didn’t realize he’s said anything aloud, but the other kid explained, "It’s Mrs. Barkner who always picks him up. They have foster kids. I know a guy who lived with them for a while. They usually have little kids though, younger than Danny.

Jack said, "I don’t think he’s moving. The teacher said he’d be back Monday."

The other kid shrugged. "Well, they do try to keep kids in the same school. But I’ll tell you where he’s not—a family reunion!" They laughed, and Jack wanted to punch them . . . but he had another question.

"What are the Barkners like, do you know?" But the kid didn’t. Jack wasn’t sure what he thought of this new development. The priest at church had said that bad kids who commit crimes are put in foster care. But Daniel wasn’t like that, Jack was sure. Besides, he’s never liked that priest anyway.

That night at supper, he asked, "Mom, why would someone be in foster care?"

Kate O’Neill blinked and looked at her husband before answering. "Well, Honey, to be honest, I really don’t know. I think sometimes they take the kids away if their parents can’t control them, or if the family is too poor to take care of them."

Joe O’Neill added, "Kids from orphanages sometimes end up in foster care. And sometimes . . . Jack, some people don’t deserve to be parents. And they hurt their kids. Your Uncle Mark told me how some things he saw while on the force made him just sick—but the abuse has to be extremely bad and endangering the child’s life for them to be put in foster care. There’s really very little the police can do. Kids don’t have many rights." He paused. "Kind of like we’re forcing you to do the dishes tonight." His attempt to lighten the mood failed miserably.

Kate gently asked her son, "Why do you ask?"

Jack though for a moment. Did he want to share Daniel with them? Show them why he didn’t act on the anger he still carried inside? "I just heard a kid mention it and was curious." He could tell they didn’t buy it, but said nothing more.

Jack’s parents knew that his last day of detention was Thursday—they were planning a celebration supper Monday night—complete with cake. As he wolfed down three pieces of cake (his appetite still hadn’t quite caught up to the typical teenage boy’s) he thought about Daniel. He realized that somehow Daniel had changed him without ever saying a word and only writing a few. "Can I take a couple pieces to school tomorrow, Mom?" She laughed and ruffled his hair.

Tuesday Jack looked for Daniel at lunch but didn’t see him. That was OK, he hadn’t expected to. After school, he hurried to the detention room and waited outside, peeking in to make sure he’d beat Daniel there.

Sure enough, there he came. He’d gotten a haircut, but his hair was still long and flopping in his eyes. He froze when he saw Jack.

"Hey, Daniel." Jack held up the box of cake tantalizingly. "Come on." He turned to go, but Daniel didn’t move. "Oh, for cryin’ out loud, would you rather see me or Lady Psycho in there . . . Danny?" This time, as he walked away he heard quiet steps behind him.

There was a park a few blocks away from the school. Jack and Daniel sat on a secluded bench far from the lingering smokers from the school. Daniel looked worried and a little confused, but didn’t seem scared of Jack. Good.

With great ceremony, Jack opened the package, revealing two large pieces of chocolate cake, napkins, and a plastic fork. Jack graciously gave Daniel both the larger piece and the fork, using his fingers to devour his own. They ate in silence.

Licking his fingers, Jack saw that Daniel was only half-done. He would carefully use his fork to cut off a thin slice of cake, then cut that into even smaller squares, then study each piece before eating it.

"Savoring, huh?" Jack didn’t wait for a response. "I’m done with detention, you know, ‘cause I stopped fighting." He paused to lick the last pinkie finger. "You were right, you know. I was being totally stupid and, um, basically an ass. I’m sorry." He thought he saw a little smile cross Daniel’s face.

He continued, "I was so angry, I just—I don’t know if you heard the story, or if you heard the correct version. What happened was—" Jack stopped and swallowed. "I’ve never told anyone except the police, and them only the facts." He looked at Daniel, who had gone still and was looking down at what was left of his cake.

"I’ve wanted to be in the Air Force forever. I’ve always wanted to fly, ever since we went on a plane on a family trip to Disneyworld. I loved it. I had model airplanes and toy guns of all kinds.

"It was last fall. I was playing a game with Charlie—this cousin of mine. He was really cute. I used to watch him for his parents, since there aren’t any girls in our family to baby-sit. I didn’t mind, though. I thought it was cool, how much he looked up to me.

"We used to pretend that I was a general. I made up battle cries and rules for our games. One of them was "death before dishonor." That day . . . we were playing "attack by helicopter." We’d played it before. We would swing down from the tree house with a rope, and then tried to hit as many tin cans as possible with our toy guns. Sometimes there were little pellets in them, but usually there was no bullet at all, just air."

Jack glanced at Daniel, who hadn’t moved. "Sounds dumb, huh?" But it was fun. But this time Charlie lost his grip on the rope and fell right into a pile of leaves. It wasn’t a bad fall, but he looked pretty silly and he knew it. Then he gave me this goofy grin and said—I remember so clearly—"Death before dishonor, General." And he put the gun to his head and fired.

"It wasn’t a toy gun." Daniel’s head jerked up at his words. "Yeah. It was almost hunting season and Charlie’s dad had taken his guns out, to clean them I think. We didn’t even look to see if they were toys. I never looked . . . .

"I didn’t know what to do . . . find a phone? Scream for help? Try to help him? But it didn’t matter. He had died instantly." It was quiet for a while. Jack could feel the black mood coming on again. God, talking didn’t help! It hurt even more!

He heard something and turned to see Daniel gently pushing the rest of his cake towards Jack. "No," he said abruptly. "I saved that for you." Daniel looked at him, then bent down and drew a symbol in the dirt. It looked a little like a cross with a circle on the top line, but more elongated and stylized. Jack looked at Daniel, willing him to explain. But Daniel just smiled sadly. Jack saw no pity there, only understanding. Then Daniel glanced up at the sky and picked up his backpack. Looking at his watch, Jack realized that detention was finishing.

Impulsively, he said, "Meet me for lunch tomorrow. We don’t need to stay at school, just . . . meet me by the detention room." Daniel paused—then he nodded. And then he was gone, before Jack could insist that he take the rest of the cake.

". . . very encouraged by your progress, Jonathon." Jack said nothing—stupid shrink didn’t know anything. "Have you given thought to joining a sports team?"

"Yeah. I’m not going to. See ya, Doc." Jack wasn’t totally sure why he hadn’t told anyone about his new friend. He told himself that it was for Daniel’s sake—Jack accept that he wouldn’t talk, but nobody else ever did. Grownups were stupid that way.

The shrink’s office was close enough to walk home. The first building on the next block was the public library. Jack hesitated, then went in. At the information desk, he drew a picture of the symbol Daniel had drawn and asked if it meant anything.

The librarian studied it. "It’s an ankh."

"A what?"

"An ankh. Egyptian symbol for life." Well . . . now Jack actually felt kind of angry. He’d been baring his soul, talking about Charlie’s death, and Daniel had put "life?" Was he mocking Jack, thinking Jack wouldn’t know any better?

He started to take the paper back, but another librarian had arrived and was looking at it. The first said, "It’s an ankh, right? Symbol for life?"

The other said absently, "Everlasting life. Immortality. It’s all over Egyptian tombs, since they believe the soul lives forever." Well, that certainly put a new spin on it. As Jack thanked them and walked away, he heard the first librarian say, "I think it’s just great when kids show an interest in learning about new things outside the classroom." Had Daniel come here? Was this his destination when he cut class?

"I looked up the ankh," Jack told Daniel as they walked to the park. Daniel didn’t look surprised. As they sat down, Jack admitted, "You’re a complete enigma, Daniel Jackson." Daniel looked mildly at him. "Yeah, I know, big word. But somehow I think I’m still miles behind your vocabulary." No reaction. "OK, I’m dying of curiosity—but no pressure. The people who used to pressure me to talk about it—that’s who I wanted to hit the most." Daniel smiled.

A few days later, they walked to Charlie’s grave together. It seemed kind of stupid, but Jack wanted to introduce them. He laid a small wood ankh he found in a curiosity shop on the grave. He stepped back, and Daniel stepped forward. Jack watched with interest as his friend bowed to the grave. Then he bowed and clasped his hands like he was praying in each direction. Finally, he tugged aside the grass on the grave and picked up a small handful of dirt. He cupped his hands around it and then very solemnly offered it to Jack.

It looked to Jack like some ancient Egyptian ceremony—conducted by a skinny kid with clothes too big for him. Jack would bet that it was supposed to have words—but he was touched by the quiet sincerity of it. He waited until they were out of the cemetery before saying softly, "Thank you. See you Monday, Daniel."

The next week brought more changes. After Daniel failed the school’s eye test, he showed Jack the prescription for his new glasses. Kate and Joe O’Neill raised their eyebrows when their son—with perfect vision and absolutely no interest in science—was suddenly curious about eyeglasses, their prescriptions, and what myopia was.

"God, Daniel," Jack said later that week. "You were practically blind. How did you manage at all?" Daniel stiffened a little—that meant he didn’t want to discuss it.

It would probably seem odd to most people, to say that you were discussing something when the other person didn’t talk. But Jack was learning to read Daniel’s body language. Knowing Daniel like he did, he couldn’t understand why everyone thought Daniel was dumb. He obviously understood, and somehow knew a lot about Egypt, too. He just didn’t talk.

School was drawing to a close. It was almost Memorial Day weekend. Jack’s dad planned for them to go fishing. And Jack had an idea of his own, but wasn’t sure if it would work.

Daniel was looking at him. Jack had to smile. Daniel always knew when something was bothering him. "All right, all right. Don’t say "no" until I’m done, OK?" Daniel frowned, but he was listening.

"My dad’s taking me fishing for Memorial Day weekend. I’d like you to come." Daniel stilled. Jack hurried to say, "I’d ask permission on my side and yours—you’d be under no pressure to talk at all. We’re driving up to a lake in Minnesota—my family has a cabin up there. If my dad is prying too much, we could always go to a different part of the lake." Daniel still didn’t move, forcing Jack to play his trump card, the one he knew would get his friend’s attention.

"Daniel, I admit, I don’t know if I can take it otherwise. Last year, we went with Charlie and his dad." Daniel looked at him with concern. "His dad says he forgives me, but—well—I feel the same. I was there, Charlie was with me, but it was him who left a loaded gun out. I know I’m doing better, Dad wouldn’t even attempt it otherwise, and I know he wants to be close to me again, but he’s scared, too. Daniel, I need you there." Jack knew it was selfish—but it was true.

Finally, Daniel carefully drew two interlocking lines in the ground—a fish. Jack put a dot in for its eye, then impulsively drew in a smile. He saw another shy smile when he looked at his friend.

Jack gave Daniel no time to change his mind. He hung around the school until Daniel was done with detention, then walked home with him. He’d decided to ask for permission from Daniel’s foster mom first, because he knew it would be easy to convince his own father.

It was a run-down neighborhood, but not quite a slum. The paint was peeling off the houses, but the yards were neat and had fledgling gardens. Daniel pushed open the door and Jack hesitantly followed.

First they went through the kitchen. It had the strange look of having just been cleaned, yet perpetually dirty. There were three kids sitting at the table—all boys. Jack guessed their ages at about five, eight, and ten. Charlie was ten when he died . . . . Each child had a glass of milk, an empty bowl and a spoon in front of them. Two cans of tomato soup, a kettle and a con-opener rested on the counter.

Jack watched as Daniel quickly started heating up the soup, grabbed a couple of Kleenexes, and started wiping each kid’s runny nose. "Who are you?" It was the ten-year-old.

"I’m a friend of Daniel’s."

The kid waited to have his nose wiped before saying with the disconcerting frankness of children, "I didn’t think he had friends." Daniel looked apologetic.

Holding Daniel’s gaze, Jack said firmly, "Well, he does." Daniel looked away.

As Daniel poured out the soup for the kids, Jack was informed of their names (Jason, Jimmy and Brad) and their ages (five, nine, and "almost ten"). He found out that Daniel made their soup because they weren’t allowed to use the stove (though Brad was sure he could handle it).

Once they were eating, Daniel inclined his head towards the next room, and Jack nervously followed him in. The woman inside watching a soap opera was fat, but not obese. Without looking, she said, "Dan? That you?"

"Ma’am?"

She sprang to her feet with surprising agility. ‘Who the fuck are you?"

Jack gave her his best smile. "Sorry, Ma’am. I’m a friend of Daniel’s. Jack O’Neill." She didn’t say it aloud like the kid had, but she clearly thought it . . . .

Jack explained about the fishing trip, stressing that his father would take care of any accident, illness, etc. The woman frowned. "I think it might be against the rules." Belatedly, she offered her hand. "Elaine Barkner. I’m Dan’s foster mother." She studied Jack. "It doesn’t bother you that he can’t communicate?"

Jack said evenly, "Daniel, as he likes to be called, can communicate just fine—he just doesn’t talk. And that’s about his choice, not a disability. Besides, you don’t need to be a great conversationalist to sit in a rowboat holding a fishing pole."

It ended up being perfectly easy. Elaine Barkner struck Jack as insensitive and rough around the edges, but not a bad person. She readily signed a paper giving permission for Daniel to be with them and receive treatment if needed (Jack had gotten the idea from the permission slips parents always had to sign when there was a school field trip).

Leaving the house, Jack told Daniel with a grin, "Tonight—I tell my dad about all this." Daniel looked worried as always, but Jack thought he saw some hope or anticipation there too.

Joe O’Neill’s newspaper slowly fluttered to his lap. "I had thought this could be a sort of father/son time . . . ." He saw the cloud that passed over Jack’s face.

Jack said harshly, "That could be strained, seeing how we’re short one father/son pair this year." Joe wondered—had this been a mistake?

But Jack leaned forward earnestly. "Dad, this is for Daniel, too. I know I haven’t mentioned him before, but he’s the one who helped me stop fighting. He’s helped me a lot with the whole—you know. I’ve been able to talk to him about it."

Kate said dryly, "Let me guess: he’s a foster child, has glasses for severe myopia, and is interested enough in ancient Egypt to get you interested in it."

Jack held up his hands. "True, I admit it! But there is one thing you should know: he doesn’t talk."

"He’s mute?" Kate asked with interest. "Does he know sign language?"

Jack shook his head. "He can talk, but he doesn’t. I guess something really bad happened to him. But I’ve promised him, no pressure to talk on the trip. He gets enough of that crap from everyone else." Seeing his parents’ doubtful looks, he added, "He communicates just fine—you just need to pay attention and not wait for an answer, at least not until you’re used to each other."

He saw his parents weakening and moved in for the kill. "His foster mother has already agreed and signed this." He showed them the form Elaine Barkner had signed. "I mean, you don’t want me to see Daniel tomorrow and tell him that after he invited me to his house so I could ask her, you’re turning him down?"

Joe sighed. "OK, OK, I know when I’m beaten. I guess there are enough fish there for three people."

Kate sighed, too. "Now I wish I was going. How exciting! I expect a full report about the boy, Joe. And you, Jack—no more withholding information from your mother!"

The plan was to leave after supper the Friday before Memorial Day. Jack told Daniel to be ready at 7:30. After receiving a goodnight kiss for each day of his absence from his mother (at least Daniel didn’t see it) Joe and Jack piled into the station wagon.

Jack remembered the way to Daniel’s house, and Joe introduced himself to Mrs. Barkner, though he sensed that her focus was on the television rather than him. Daniel appeared, looking as he always did, with the addition of an enormous sweater (clearly one of Mr. Barkner’s) that would have even looked silly on Jack. He also had his school backpack. He looked at them with wide eyes.

Joe smiled in his direction, but didn’t try for eye contact. "Hi, Daniel, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Jack’s dad, Joe O’Neill. And whatever he’s said about me, I swear it’s not true."

"But Dad, I said you were the greatest!" Jack teased.

Joe snorted. "I’m sure."

Daniel sat in the back by the fishing gear, clutching his backpack like it was a life preserver. Joe chatted lightly about his job—he worked in construction, and loved working with fine wood. He talked about Jack’s mother, and her job as a physical therapist, and told some embarrassing stories about Jack. Jack cringed—but Joe was glad to see Daniel relax a little.

Jack fell asleep on the drive north, but Daniel was awake the whole time—Joe could see his eyes. He didn’t try to talk, just turned on some quiet music. Joe knew that children did not stop talking easily. He shuddered to think what might have caused Daniel to retreat so far into himself. Still, he could see Jack’s point about Daniel’s intelligence. The boy had clearly understood everything Joe said. A few times he had caught the hint of a smile—he felt proud of that accomplishment and knew he’d be spending the weekend doing all kinds of stupid things to try and get it back (little did he know that his reaction was exactly like his son’s).

They arrived at the cabin in the early morning hours. Jack groggily got up and staggered into the house—Daniel uncertainly followed him.

A few hours later, Jack woke up to an unfamiliar sound. He looked at Daniel’s bed. Daniel was whimpering, crying—it was the first sound Jack had ever heard him make. He wondered what kind of nightmares Daniel had, and if he’d ever trust Jack enough to tell him.

When Jack woke again in the morning, Daniel was gone. Jack wandered through the house looking until he got the bright idea to look outside. He still almost didn’t find Daniel—somehow he’s gotten onto the cabin roof. He was looking out over the lake, completely absorbed.

He jumped when Jack called, "Hey, you monkey! Want to climb down and get some breakfast?" Daniel blinked, like the thought hadn’t actually occurred to him. As he started to climb down, Jack was ready to catch him. He used to catch Charlie all the time. But Daniel got down without any help and padded after Jack into the kitchen.

After eggs and toast, Jack grabbed the fishing gear. "Come on! Dad always sleeps the whole first day." He led Daniel onto the pier. To his surprise, Daniel not only knew how to bait the hook, he wasn’t bothered by the worms at all.

They sat in the rising sun, toes dipping into the cold spring water—probably scaring all the fish away. (But as Jack passionately told a skeptical Daniel, fishing is not about the fish).

It was one of his father’s old routines that always drove his mother crazy. As Joe shuffled onto the porch with his coffee, the area was so quiet he could clearly hear his son saying earnestly, ". . . not about the fish, per se. Fish are not important in this context. It’s the act of fishing . . . ." Joe couldn’t suppress his grin. God, but Jack was turning out like him . . . .

His mood soured for a moment as he remembered the previous fall. He’d seen that they were losing Jack—so had Kate—but nothing they had done seemed to make a difference. Joe didn’t know how Daniel Jackson had worked his magic, but it was done. Jack was healing—slowly, painfully, but unmistakably. Yes, the O’Neills certainly owed Daniel Jackson. It was time to return the favor.

"Catch anything?" he called, and the two boys turned around. Jack made a rude gesture. Joe laughed and called, "Just you wait! I’ll show you how it’s done!"

Monday after lunch, they piled into the car to go home. Daniel had caught a couple of fish, all too small to keep. He’d seemed quite happy to set them free, but Joe had a thought as he watched—that Daniel would have been perfectly capable of gutting, cooking and eating them. That was one frighteningly mature little boy.

Both Joe and Jack had caught—nothing. On the drive back, they amused Daniel by making up stories about "the one that got away." "Mine was this big," Jack bragged, stretching his arms as wide as they could go in the car. "No, bigger! Daniel, hold your left hand up . . . yeah . . . that big." (The resulting fish would have been about the same length as the car). Jack settled back to see if his father could top it.

Joe said mildly, "Well, out the window now is the tail of mine—his head is back by that restaurant."

Jack started laughing. "The one we passed half an hour ago?"

"Yep."

"Dad, that’s like 40 miles. Blue whales don’t get that big! Our lake isn’t that big!"

"Jealous, isn’t he?" Joe commented to Daniel. Daniel gave one of his little smiles, and Joe beamed.

Upon reaching Daniel’s house, Daniel gave them another shy smile before stepping inside. As they drove away, Joe said into the silence, "Don’t gloat, son. It’s rude."

Jack ignored him. "You like him, you like him! Isn’t he the greatest? Wouldn’t you being willing to go to prison if you got a chance to kill whoever hurt him?" Joe was a little surprised by his son’s vehemence, but didn’t disagree. And the next day, he quietly started researching the foster care system.

While Daniel and Jack wandered around the mall and various parks, Joe (and Kate, whom he enlisted) learned about foster care. They wanted to try to find out about Daniel’s past, but forced themselves not to, deciding it would be a breech of trust.

In the end it was Jack who found out first. Generally, during lunch and after school, it was Jack who chose their destination. Daniel seemed content to follow, and Jack liked being in charge.

But one day as they reached a corner they always turned left on, Daniel stepped in front and inclined his head to the right. Jack couldn’t read his expression, but nodded and followed his friend.

Jack had no idea where they were going until they got to the Oriental Institute. He’d had to go to the museum once for class and had been bored silly. But Daniel obviously wanted to show him something, and Jack was game.

They slipped inside without paying—no one seemed to notice them. Daniel led the way to a room full of Egyptian stuff. Well, that figured. They went past the mummies to the far back wall, where several amulets and jars were on display, with a sign explaining them. Daniel stared at the display. Jack watched him for a moment, than read the sign.

It was about the symbolism of the objects, and Jack was about to turn away when the word "Jackson" caught his eye. It was in the few sentences explaining where the objects had been found and who had studied them. ". . . by Melbourne and Claire Jackson, and sent to the Oriental Institute in anticipation of a larger exhibition of the find. The exhibition was cancelled after the both archeologists died and several were injured while setting it up at the Museum of Art (New York).

Jack looked at Daniel and asked quietly, "How did they die?" Daniel regarded him for a moment. He walked to the door of the room, then turned and looked back at Jack as if asking, "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Jack followed. This time they went to the library. Jack felt a kind of giddy excitement, even though he felt guilty about it. He was finally finding out!

Daniel took him to the newspaper archives and deftly drew a copy of the New York Times out of the pile. It was almost one and a half years old. He opened it to the page of births and deaths and gave it to Jack.

Jack was aware of Daniel’s eyes on him as he read. He read about the horrible accident in the museum—how the chain holding up a massive cover stone (whatever that was) had snapped, and how the stone had crushed two prominent archeologists to death. There were praises for the dedication and skill of the Jacksons, and the popularity of their digs. It had been the greatest find of their careers.

And there was another small sentence; "They are survived by their son, Daniel." No more.

Jack slowly lowered the paper, looking at Daniel’s anxious face. Daniel had seen it happen, Jack was sure of it. Suddenly he reached out and enveloped his friend in a hug. He felt Daniel stiffen and start to pull away, but held him firmly. After a long moment, Daniel slowly relaxed.

Jack held the hug a little longer (he thought Daniel needed it) before stepping back and saying quietly, "Thank you for telling me."

Daniel looked away—but Jack thought he seemed glad to have finally shared the knowledge with someone. "You know," he thought later, as he and Daniel went their separate ways towards home, "that shrink was right. Sharing it with someone does help." He was glad Daniel had trusted him enough to tell him, and said nothing of what he had learned to his parents.

 

When the summer vacation started, the two boys were nearly inseparable. Kate met Daniel for the first time when he came over for lemonade. Once, glancing at the two heads bent over something outside, Kate quietly said to Joe, "Ever notice how remarkably like Charlie he looks?" It was true—as the sun tanned him and lightened his brown hair, Daniel looked startlingly like the dead child.

"Do you think Jack realizes it?" Joe asked.

Kate considered, than said, "No. But Daniel does. When he was looking through a photo album—I think Jack was in the shower—he saw a picture of Jack and Charlie, and the way his jaw dropped . . . ."

"I wonder what his voice sounds like," Joe said wistfully.

"Don’t we all."

It was near the end of June, a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Jack had convinced Daniel to stay for supper, and Kate had rushed out to buy some fresh produce for the salad and ribs for Joe to barbeque.

Joe was working in the garden, and the boys had set up an elaborate experiment to try and cook an egg on the sidewalk (Joe’s comment that, even if it was possible, would you really want to eat an egg off the sidewalk, had fallen on deaf ears).

He wasn’t quite sure how they’d managed it, with one scientist mute and the other occupied by the possibility that they’d inadvertently trapped an ant under one of the eggs—but at any rate, something was happening. Joe was reaching for another weed when he felt the sharp pain in his chest.

"Dad?" For some reason, Jack thought his father had just said something—but he didn’t seem to be in sight. Jack turned to Daniel and found him white and trembling, staring at the garden. Without a word, Jack was up and running to the garden.

Joe was on his back, clutching his heart, his face graying at an alarming rate. Jack knew that his father had high blood pressure—suddenly Joe stopped breathing. "Shit!" Jack breathed. For the first time, he was glad of the first aid course his parents had made him take (he’d cursed it after being unable to help Charlie). He bellowed in Daniel’s general direction, "Get the aspirin," forgetting that Daniel would have no idea where it was, and bent to begin mouth-to-mouth.

The instant Jack had moved, Daniel had raced into the house. He lifted the telephone . . . .

"911, what’s your emergency?"

A few minutes later, when the ambulance arrived, Jack didn’t question it. If anything, he assumed that a neighbor had heard the commotion. His whole mind was on his father—he could not survive the death of another loved one. He insisted on going in the ambulance with them.

At the SuperFood, Kate’s favorite grocery store, the intercom suddenly crackled to life. "Kate O’Neill to the service desk, please." Puzzled, Kate put down the head of lettuce she was inspecting and went to see what it was about. Perhaps they had remembered something else they needed at the house. A minute later, she was in her car and speeding towards the hospital, groceries forgotten.

She almost despaired when she saw Jack’s tear-streaked face—but they were tears of relief. It was a mild heart attack, and Joe had gotten help quickly. One of the EMTs walked past, and Kate thanked her with heartfelt emotion.

"Hey, don’t thank me; thank your son . . . Daniel, is it?"

Kate blinked. "I’m sorry?"

"In these cases most people die when they’re not gotten to help soon enough. The whole crew believes that Daniel’s prompt 911 call saved Mr. O’Neill’s life."

Kate gasped, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. "Do you think I might hear the tape?" At the medic’s quizzical look, she said, "You see, I’ve never heard his voice . . . ."

 

After calling the grocery store, Daniel ran home. Why did everyone around him die? Maybe he was cursed, like the tomb of King Tutankhamen. He should leave before Jack or his mom got hurt. Or Mrs. Barkner. He didn’t like her very much, but he didn’t want anything bad to happen to her because of him.

Quickly stuffing a few things into his backpack, Daniel paused at the picture from his fishing trip with Joe and Jack. Well, he couldn’t hurt Joe now. Would the curse still hurt Jack if he had a picture? Daniel decided not to risk it.

Daniel pulled out the gifts he’s been working on for the O’Neills—posters with their names in stylized, High Egyptian hieroglyphics, and the history and meaning of their names going around the outside, first in English, but then in German, Dutch, Arabic, and—there was an empty space for one more. Daniel hadn’t been able to decide between Chinese, which looked good but might not fit, Mayan, to represent a Native American culture, and French, which he was still in the early stages of teaching himself and could therefore get it wrong. Well, it didn’t matter now. Daniel dropped the posters on the bed, shouldered his backpack, and walked away.

Joe was sleeping like a baby. Kate and Jack huddled in a small nearby room and pressed "play." "911, what’s your emergency?"

They heard a breathy, frightened whisper—unintelligible. The operator said blandly, "Try to calm down. Can you speak English?"

Kate and Jack barely had time to exchange stunned glances as the whispering returned. "Sorry, sorry, Joe’s having a heart attack, you have to help him, he’s in the garden and having a heart attack and I don’t know where the aspirin is . . . I’m supposed to get the aspirin and . . . ."

"Calm down, OK? Someone is on the way. "Joe" is having a heart attack?"

"Joe O’Neill, Joe O’Neill."

"OK. What’s your name?"

"Daniel."

"OK, Daniel, how long ago did this start?"

"I, um . . . I stared for a few seconds because I was surprised when he fell down, then I ran inside and called."

"That’s good. You did the right thing, Danny."

"My name is Daniel." Kate and Jack exchanged glances at that.

"OK, Daniel, I’m sorry."

"Do you have the address? Of course you do . . . I have to call—" The phone abruptly disconnected. The operator immediately called back, but the line was busy.

"Daniel must have called the grocery store," Kate murmured.

Jack just shook his head. "Wait until Dad hears this!"

But Kate wasn’t listening. "I just realized . . . Daniel doesn’t know that your father is all right." Jack stopped laughing.

"You should call him, Mom."

"I believe I will." She rose and went to go find a phone. Jack looked around, and then started playing the tape again.

So that was Daniel’s voice . . . his whisper, anyway. Maybe Daniel would talk to them now, since the barrier of silence had been broken. Jack hoped so. He had so many questions for his friend, and it would be nice to have conversations that weren’t completely one-sided.

Listening to the tape, Jack wondered yet again at the similarities between Daniel and Charlie. He knew the others thought he didn’t notice—well, it had taken him a while to pick up on it. It had been when he was looking through a scrapbook and saw a picture of Charlie, and for a split-second thought it was Daniel, before realizing that it couldn’t be. Jack considered it his mission in life to get Daniel to laugh in a manner half as carefree as Charlie’s had been. He was musing between those thoughts—and the reality of the afternoon was beginning to sink in—when Kate returned, her face grim.

Daniel was missing. Elaine thought he’d been back earlier, but there was a wedding on her favorite soap (being late Saturday afternoon, it wasn’t new, but a rerun on the Soap Opera Channel). Most of his belongings were gone, and those that remained were scattered around the room—and Daniel was usually quite neat.

Kate explained the afternoon’s events, and Elaine was predictably shocked. Jack took off to look in some places where Daniel could have gone. Kate fretted at the hospital, knowing there wasn’t anything she could do, and wanting to be near Joe, yet feeling useless.

 

Daniel stood before Charlie’s grave. He’s done Charlie’s name, too, in simple, flowing glyphs. But then he’d decided not to continue it, because it might not be appropriate. Daniel saw that Jack’s little wood ankh had toppled and was almost obscured by the grass. He carefully propped it up again.

"Charlie, do you have any idea how lucky you were? How dangerous that silly game was and how you’ve left your two heroes with guilt instead of happiness when they think of you?"

Daniel stepped a little closer. "Is Joe with you now? I’m so sorry, Joe, when I had to talk it was like before, and all the English words ran away. If I’d been faster, or known where to get the aspirin. . . ."

Jack had checked his own house, several parks, the library and the museum. He was on his way to the mall when we passed the cemetery and a flash of movement caught his eye. "Daniel?"

Daniel had been crying, he saw, and looked terrified, like a skittish deer about to turn tail and run. "He’s OK!" Jack bellowed as he ran. Daniel blinked—his backpack dropped from his hand.

"Did you hear me?" Jack asked, and grabbed Daniel in a hug. Daniel froze—except for the day he had learned about Daniel’s parents, Jack had always been courteous to Daniel’s personal space. "Well?" And now he was acting like he expected Daniel to answer . . . .

"Are you sure you’re Jack O’Neill, and not some alien who looks a lot like Jack O’Neill?" Jack snorted at that, and Daniel said tentatively, "You seem very happy."

"Of course I’m happy. My father is alive. Aren’t you?"

Daniel’s voice was very quiet and a little sad as he replied, "Yes. Yes, of course I’m—happy. I’m—very happy, that Joe is OK."

"Why’d you run?"

Daniel looked at his feet. "It’s stupid." He glanced up a little. "I thought I was cursed. It made sense at the time."

"Sure it did, Dan—oh!" The last few minutes caught up with Jack and he stared at Daniel, who squirmed under his gaze. "You’re talking!"

Before Daniel could say (or not say) anything, Jack hit his forehead. "Oh, God, Mom’s going crazy with worry—she’ll kill me if I don’t get you to the hospital right now. Come on." And Daniel followed him.

Jack talked nonstop on the way to the hospital. Daniel knew it was happy relief that everything was working out, plus probably adrenaline. But even though Daniel was genuinely relieved and happy beyond words that Joe would be all right, his steps began to drag. They’d all look at him now, and talk and expect an answer. And—he knew it was wrong, but he felt jealous of his friend. It almost felt like Jack was flaunting that he didn’t have to go through what Daniel had.

The last block before the hospital, Daniel stopped walking. He didn’t try to sneak away or go back the way they’d come, but he couldn’t bring himself to go forward.

When Jack realized that Daniel was no longer right behind him, he rushed back. "What are you waiting for? Come on, Mom is going crazy in there!"

A flash of pain crossed Daniel’s face at the word "Mom," and Jack finally understood. "Oh, shit, Danny, I didn’t—" Jack froze. Had he really just called Daniel by his most hated nickname at the worst possible moment?"

But Daniel just smiled a little wistfully. "That’s what Mom and Dad used to call me. Danny. I could never bear to hear someone else say it." He looked at Jack. "I’m happy for you, Jack, I really am. Tonight will just be—hard."

"Want to talk about it?"

"I thought there was a rush."

Jack smiled at his friend. "This is more important than my mom being irritated with me, Daniel."

Daniel abruptly sat down on the curb. After a moment, Jack joined him. They were both quiet for a while. Then Daniel began, in a soft, low tine that made Jack think of the ceremony for Charlie.

"They were so happy, Jack, it was such an honor . . . the New York Museum of Art is really prestigious." He shivered when he named the museum, and Jack thought about the cold plaque in the local museum. He brought himself back to the present as Daniel continued.

"I was happy, too. I’d never been to America and I thought there would be hippies and movie stars on every street. I worked very hard on my English, even though Mom and Dad told me it was fine. They and the others on the dig had taught me—I had never been to school. Since we were going to be in New York for a while, they decided to enroll me. I took tests to decide which school year I should be in. That’s why I’m smaller than everyone. I’m three years younger than you, not one."

Daniel glanced at Jack as if gauging his reaction, and Jack asked, "Did you like America?" It was strange to him, to think of America as a foreign country.

Daniel considered the question. "Mom and Dad were very happy. For them it was home. For me, it was strange, and I missed the old market, and all the colors and flavors and languages. In Cairo, I could talk to anyone, but in New York, Mom wouldn’t let me practice Lettish with the cab driver."

Jack blinked. "Lettish?"

"It’s close to Russian. But I was still excited, I think. Then—" Daniel seemed to shrink away, and Jack tensed. "There was the accident. I saw it, and I knew they had to be dead. But my father lived for almost an hour, sometimes unconscious, sometimes incoherent, and they were so busy trying to get him out that they forgot about me . . . so when they got the stones up, I saw everything.

"I ran and hid in the museum for a few days before they remembered me. I guess I hoped that if they didn’t tell me it had happened, for real, I could pretend it hadn’t. They put me in an orphanage, then later in the homes. I don’t know why they moved me from New York to Chicago—they would never tell me anything."

"Why wouldn’t you talk?"

Daniel shrugged. "At first? Well, it’s part of a ritual of grief that a Saudi once told me about. I went through all the rituals of grief I know, then again. They caught me trying to cut my hair though, and wouldn’t let me." Daniel smiled a little at some memory. "The other kids thought I was really weird. I guess I was.

"But the main reason is, at first I felt so overwhelmed. Everyone spoke American English, and made all these references to movies, or books, or games, or experiences I had never had. I knew English, but I had no idea what people were saying. Remember, I’d never had a hot dog, or gone sledding, or watched TV. When I did try to open my mouth, the words flew away. And sometimes the grownups didn’t want kids to make any noise anyway." Daniel absently rubbed his wrist as he said the last, and Jack frowned as nightmare scenarios flashed through his mind. He took Daniel’s hand and stilled the movement.

Daniel blinked at him, than mumbled, "They put me into the classes I had tested to, but I didn’t care about math or American history. I hated America, because bad things didn’t happen until we got here. I didn’t want to learn geography, hear teachers mispronounce the names of places I’d been to.

"And I was bored. I drew hieroglyphics in my notebooks and wrote my first English paper in classical Greek." Daniel glanced at Jack, blushing a little. "I guess I was showing off, except none of them realized it because they never would have dreamed that my drawings actually meant something.

"I guess at some point, the records from the placement tests were lost, and all the teachers knew was that I drew nonsense and didn’t do my work. And that’s how it still is." He shrugged. "Someday I’m going back home, to Egypt. But I can’t right now, because I’m a ward of the State."

"That’s—"

"Jack! Daniel! Where have you been?" It was Kate, rushing towards them. She snapped at Jack, "Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Jack shrugged and said casually, "Daniel wanted to talk." God, it felt good to say those words.

"Daniel wanted. . . ." Suddenly Daniel was enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. Jack was pretty sure he heard a muffled squeak as Daniel sought air.

As the pair trailed after Kate into the building, they didn’t know that Kate and Joe were now focusing their research on how they might get guardianship of Daniel. Neither did they know that the greatest adventures of their friendship were still ahead of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Confession time: I'm pretty sure this is the first fanfiction I ever wrote, back in 2004 or so. Looking at it now, I realize it's basically a rip-off of Sam Walker's much better story, "The Legend of Daniel Jackson"-the main difference being that in hers, Jack is an adult. (if you haven't read it, I highly recommend seeing if it's still floating around the interwebs somewhere)
> 
> It's kind of embarrassing to read this now, but I find myself reluctant to revisit something so old. And parts of it aren't completely awful, I think. I hope you enjoyed it.


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